The modern Sisyphus: Breathing smog and pushing boulders

Albert Camus remains a central figure in our understanding of the absurd, yet his guidance is often mistaken for obscurity. Critics point to a perceived lack of logical consistency, a difficulty perhaps born from the vivid, literary nature of his work. But one of his most potent and successful frameworks endures: his interpretation of the Sisyphean myth. And in our current moment, it has never felt more chillingly relevant.

Before we delve into the myth, let us pause and look aSisyphust our present reality. Consider Delhi, engulfed in a dystopian atmospheric haze. The most objectionable observation is not just the poison in the air, but the veils of ignorance we wear as we breathe it, normalizing the abnormal. This belief that ‘we shall become immune’, instead of taking concerted action to eradicate the root cause, leads us directly to the fundamental question Camus posed.

In our current existence, we are, by all accounts, “living.” We follow meticulous routines, plan our days with methodological precision, and fulfill a cascade of duties and responsibilities. But for what? We exist in a palpable dystopia, able to see the very air that is killing us, and yet we persist. We wake for our eight-to-ten-hour jobs, we follow the course, we push forward. But at what cost? No matter how much order, discipline, and static framework we inculcate, is the life we are living fundamentally any different from the one endured by the cursed Sisyphus?

Camus begins The Myth of Sisyphus with a startling proposition: “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.”

He grounds this in the mundanity of everyday life: “Rising, streetcar, four hours in the office or the factory, meal, streetcar, four hours of work, meal, sleep, and Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday and Saturday according to the same rhythm, this path is easily followed most of the time. But one day the ‘why’ arises and everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement.”

Today, in our metropolitan landscapes, we are surrounded by blank faces repeating this endless cycle of tiredness, unfulfillment, and complaint. This is not a life superior to Sisyphus’s fate; it is its direct parallel.

So, the larger question of the framework remains: why do we choose to still live? Why do we cling to this obsessive pattern of hurriedness, this inescapable rat race? Camus strengthens this argument with a simple, four-letter word: hope.

We live in a constant state of it. Believing we will wake tomorrow is hope. Believing our tasks hold meaning is hope. Yet, when combined, this hope paves a path to a profound ignorance. We are so “tuned,” so “hopeful,” with such surety in a future that has not happened, that this hope has become an imaginary shield. It allows us to neglect basic human fundamentals, to destroy our world, and to remain indifferent to our collapsing surroundings.

And within this very ignorance lies the fundamental concept Camus focused on: the absurd.

Think of it. Our hopeful belief in a future outcome fosters an ignorance that lets us ignore a present catastrophe. This indifference mirrors what Camus called the “unreasonable silence of the world.” The universe does not provide rational answers to our cries for meaning or justice; it offers only silence. It is easier to exist within this silence than to constantly rage against it.

This brings us to Camus’s final, defiant question: Do we then imagine Sisyphus to be happy?

Or, in our modern context, do we find him to be ignorant? Is his perpetual push of the boulder a demonstration of our own hollow hopefulness for a different outcome to an inevitable cycle? We push our boulders up the hill, our careers, our routines, our lives, hoping for a summit that offers a permanent view, only to watch it roll down again. We hope the air will clear, that the system will change, that our efforts will finally matter, all while ignoring the inherent, crushing inevitability of the cycle itself.

In the face of the universe’s unreasonable silence, as we adjust our masks and glance at the smog-choked horizon, the happiness of Sisyphus is not just a philosophical curiosity. It is the essential question of our time. Are we lucidly aware of our absurd struggle, or are we merely hoping, ignorantly, for a different result from the same eternal task?

This is something worth pondering about.